The Original Conjuring Cat
by little Alex
Summary: What happens when a cat, a boy, a Methos, and a Duncan MacLeod are all thrown together?


Disclaimer: These two gorgeous, gorgeous men do not belong to me, but to Panzer/Davis Productions, Gaumont Television, Rysher, and various other people/companies that I can't remember at the moment. Lucky bastards. 

Spoiler(s): None, really; just general knowledge of Methos hanging out with DM around the Paris barge; pre CAH/Rev 6:8, perhaps. 

Pairing(s)/Characters: Methos, Duncan MacLeod 

Ratings: PG? PG-13? 

Warning(s): cruelty to cute animals, namely one DmotCM; light-hearted mockery of a historian whom I know nothing about; and sexless PWP alert 

Feedback: here or at litalex@slashyalex.com 

Website: http://www.slashyalex.com 

Notes: Dedicated to Tritoella, who demanded kitten fic. Title shamelessly stolen from T.S. Eliot's "Mr. Mistoffelees." Anything that makes sense is Charles's fault (it's all his fault anyway) and all remaining mistakes are mine. 

*****

The Original Conjuring Cat   
by little Alex   
January 2003 

***** 

It was a beautiful day. 

The sun was shining and the sky a clear and brilliant blue. Methos could even hear birds' chirping here and there. He would have loved such a day any where else, but in Paris, such fine weather always made him a little suspicious. No matter, though. It was a gorgeous day and he intended to enjoy it thoroughly -- which was why at 11 AM, one hour after he woke up, he was sprawling in a chair on top of MacLeod's barge, reading "The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," one of the funniest books he had ever encountered. Methos had met his share of deluded mortal historians, but this one truly beat all. 

Five minutes into the book, a thin wail assaulted Methos's ears. He glanced around, attempting to find the culprit for the noise, and finally focused on the boy standing right next to the barge. Rubbing his eyes repeatedly, the child was apparently crying his eyes out at the river, if the trembling shoulders were any indication. Methos narrowed his eyes in calculation. Well, perhaps not right next to the barge; there were at least 3 to 4 meters between the barge and the boy. The sobbing, however, was loud enough and clear enough to travel more than 15 meters, Methos was sure. 

God, how annoying. Where were the boy's parents? Why weren't they taking care of this? Well, no matter, none of his business anyway. Shaking his head a little, Methos delved back into his book. Thirty seconds later he violently threw it down to the table. A child's sobbing should no more affect him than MacLeod's brooding, but both made him want to pull his hair out. Fine, he would go see what was wrong. 

He stalked his way to the child. "What's wrong?" he asked in French, pitching his voice softly enough so as not to scare the boy. 

"My kitten," the child answered in English, which surprised Methos just a little. One hand still rubbing his eyes, the boy pointed at a floating card-box still relatively close to the shore. "I dropped my kitten." 

Now that the kid had mentioned it, Methos could hear very clearly the little meows in the wind. He glanced at the box again, wondering why it was still intact, then saw the rather shiny exterior of the box. Ah, waxed surface. Methos looked back at the child, taking in the boy's size; no more than...eight, Methos supposed. Not nearly big enough to carry that large box around. *Where* the fuck were the boy's parents? What the bloody hell was an English-speaking child doing in the middle of Paris anyway? Methos looked at the box, looked at the boy, and looked back at the box. Well, he could probably find something long enough in Mac's barge to drag the box back to the shore. Might as well, now. "Wait here for a moment, okay?" he said, this time in English. 

The boy nodded, his face still in his hands. 

Methos walked quickly back to the barge and grabbed a random long pole, which turned out to be a mop. Holding the mop a little awkwardly, he jogged back to the child and proceeded to hook the box to the mop. Soon enough, the box was right next to the shore. Methos bent down to grab the box and felt a pair of small hands shoving him into the water. 

Surfacing almost immediately after, he spat the water out of his mouth and stared at the now sitting child, who was expectedly giggling like mad with his arms around his middle. From this angle, Methos could see very well the long and transparent fishing line attached to the box, the other end naturally in the damn kid's hand. He swam to the box and opened it, the whelp laughing too hard to stop him or, indeed, do much of anything. Methos peeked in and, lo and behold, no kitten, just a small stereo playing kitten sounds. 

Methos flashed a feral smile at the demon-spawn of a child and swiftly climbed back up the shore. The wretch abruptly stopped laughing and started running, but his short legs were no match for Methos's much longer ones. Methos hauled the flea-bitten brat under his arm and was completely ready to throw the struggling whelp into the water when-- 

"Adam, stop!" shouted someone with a voice amazingly similar to MacLeod's. Methos turned sharply around and saw a worried MacLeod running toward them. Methos released the demon-spawn and watched him run to the Boy Scout, who was obviously holding something in one arm, very close to his chest. Odd. MacLeod kneeled down and hugged the misbegotten wretch, who was already talking rapidly in French, his face filled with the most innocently contrite expression, no doubt explaining all events to his favor. MacLeod listened attentively, though he did manage to send Methos the occasional glare. When the despicable boy finished, MacLeod stood up and they both went toward Methos, the brat jogging a bit in front of MacLeod and smiling extremely smugly. 

Methos flashed his most beatific smile in response and had the pleasure of watching the little guttersnipe blanch and suddenly stop. MacLeod finally reached where Methos was standing, with Methos's staring at the mewing kitten against MacLeod's chest. MacLeod gave the kitten to the thrice-damned child, waved both whelps into the barge, and turned to Methos promptly. "Methos, Mikey is just a kid! He obviously didn't mean to--" 

Methos ignored MacLeod's words. The most important task now was to gather information so that he could plan his revenge accordingly. "What's the brat's name? What's he doing here?" 

Mac blinked. "Michael McCormick. I promised his parents to baby-sit him for the weekend." Sternly, he began again, "Methos--" 

"The kitten?" 

"Methos!" the self-righteous Boy Scout huffed at Methos, who gave MacLeod only the most serene look, and MacLeod eventually relented. "Mikey picked her up. He couldn't bear to see her starve to death." 

Methos snorted silently. That base-born wretch wasn't human enough to care about cute little animals. Not that Methos did either. Well, not most of the time, anyway. He focused on MacLeod again, whose mouth was open and apparently about to berate Methos more. Methos cut him off before he could begin. "And the box?" 

MacLeod frowned and sighed. "Came with the cat. We picked up the kitten and Mikey just grabbed the box and ran off. I came back immediately to call his parents, actually, but apparently Mikey beat me home." MacLeod shrugged. "Mikey said he remembered where I lived from what his parents told him and rode the bus here." 

Hmm, pretty bright kid, then. Far too bright for his own good, that's for sure; and everyone else's, considering. Methos frowned at MacLeod, who was still talking, but Methos had already tuned him out. A smile suddenly appeared on Methos's lips. Since the whole deal was MacLeod's fault in the first place, perhaps Methos should enlist the boy's help and they could have some fun with Mac instead. Methos's smile brightened. Oh, yes. 

MacLeod had now stopped and was simply staring at Methos with a puzzled look on his face. Good look on him, really. Methos strode past him and into the barge, MacLeod following a few steps behind. "Mikey" was sitting on the sofa and reading, absent-mindedly stroking the kitten's fur. Aw, such a peaceful and adorable scene, and so obviously manufactured for MacLeod's benefit that only MacLeod wouldn't notice. Methos cleared his throat. 

The brat looked up smiling, his smile faltering only for half a second when he saw Methos, and bounded up. Grinning, Methos dragged the kid away from MacLeod and dropped down to his knees, his hands clasping the boy's small shoulders. Sotto-voce, he said, "Let's make a deal." 

His gaze darting down and then up to Methos's eyes again, the child merely raised an eyebrow. 

"You stop plaguing my life and I'll help you with whatever you want with Mac." 

The whelp narrowed his eyes and whispered, "What makes you think I don't have him wrapped around my little finger in the first place?" 

Methos stood up and, knowing exactly how much the brat would hate it, ruffled the kid's hair. "I'll take the cat off your hands, 'kay?" 

The child blinked, finally surprised, and nodded. "Deal." He proffered his hand. 

Methos shook it firmly. The two co-conspirators sneaked glances at MacLeod and then grinned cheerfully at each other. Methos turned toward MacLeod. "I'm going to use your bathroom, if you don't mind." MacLeod nodded, still looking extremely confused, and Methos whistled his way into the bathroom. 

It seemed that, despite all appearances, today would indeed be a beautiful day. 

fin


End file.
